Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
“This Waiting Room of the World”
I’ve always found this a trying time of the year. The leaves
not yet out, mud everywhere you go. Frosty mornings
gone. Sunny mornings not yet come. Give me blizzards and
frozen pipes, but not this nothing time, not this waiting room
of the world.
-Jack in Shadowlands
Slow raindrops are the pulse that marks the time
Which falls with them upon the browning leaves
Each one of them a railway station bench
In a darkened world where trains have ceased to run
The ticket window is closed the rest of the day
But someone says the local will run tomorrow
Maybe around two if the tracks are cleared
Of all the hopes that seem to block the line
But maybe not, for nothing seems to move
And the journeys of life are forbidden to us
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 8:05 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
“This Waiting Room of the World”
I’ve always found this a trying time of the year. The leaves
not yet out, mud everywhere you go. Frosty mornings
gone. Sunny mornings not yet come. Give me blizzards and
frozen pipes, but not this nothing time, not this waiting room
of the world.
-Jack in Shadowlands
Slow raindrops are the pulse that marks the time
Which falls with them upon the browning leaves
Each one of them a railway station bench
In a darkened world where trains have ceased to run
The ticket window is closed the rest of the day
But someone says the local will run tomorrow
Maybe around two if the tracks are cleared
Of all the hopes that seem to block the line
But maybe not, for nothing seems to move
And the journeys of life are forbidden to us
A poem is itself.